


A Dizzying Descent

by avislightwing



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sad Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, basically azriel is a fucking mess, over-the-top angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-01-31 07:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12677100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/pseuds/avislightwing
Summary: “The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the starsDid wander darkling in the eternal space,Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earthSwung blind and blackening in the moonless air;Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,And men forgot their passions in the dreadOf this their desolation; and all heartsWere chill'd into a selfish prayer for light…”~ George Gordon Lord Byron, “Darkness”[in which the stars go out and you are left alone in the dark]





	1. Azriel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YouLookGoodInLeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/gifts).



> s/o to @squaddreamcourt for betaing for me!

Azriel didn’t know he had a heart until it broke.

It was a quiet breaking – more the crack of stone as a willow’s root wends their way into an unforeseen crevice than the harsh shatter of a glass dropped to the floor. 

The breaking was wrought not by dark shades and decayed things, but by sunlight, the one thing shadows cannot abide. It flooded his soul, searing it beyond recognition. Azriel had been burned before; the calligraphy of scars carved into his hands were testament enough to this. It hurt just as much as it had then.

The first time Azriel saw Tarquin’s face, it was in a photograph paperclipped to a case file. Rhysand Knight, Azriel’s employer, had slid the folder across the table to him but a moment ago. “Tarquin Vedalia,” he said as Azriel flipped the thin cardstock open. “He’s being… difficult. I need you to take care of it.”

Azriel inclined his head in acknowledgement, scanning the file. The photo was of a young black man with braided hair, a broad nose, and a hopeful expression. Azriel’s first reaction was scorn, then anger. How dare this Tarquin – whose days were numbered as soon as Rhysand shaped his lips around the man’s name – wear such optimism? He was a fool. A damned fool. There was nothing to be hopeful about in this world, and this was proof enough. A week from now, Tarquin would be dead with a bullet in his breast, and Rhysand will have replaced him with someone of his own choosing. Azriel had seen it happen many times before – facilitated it almost as many.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Rhysand said, standing up, the metal chair pushing back from the table with a harsh scrape of steel on concrete.

“How long?”

“Not longer than three weeks, not shorter than one. I need time to replace him – and to set up the excuses. He has family.” Rhysand gestured to the file with one gloved hand. “Two cousins who work with him. They’ll ask questions.”

“What’s the excuse this time?”

“Terrorist group,” Rhysand said shortly. “Should be believable enough. He’s made enough enemies.” And with that rather enigmatic comment, he left the room, closing the door behind him with a sharp click.

Azriel continued studying the case file. He would need to be familiar with every aspect of this man’s life in order to destroy it utterly. As Rhysand had said, there were the two cousins – Cresseida and Varian – but otherwise no listed family. Tarquin was unmarried, single even, leaving the lady-loving to his relatives. His focus appeared to be… public service. Azriel leaned back in his chair in spiteful bemusement, reading the man’s accomplishments. Before his position as executive director of a highly influential charity nonprofit, he’d still given generously of his time and talent. The file included endless photos of him at protests, making impassioned speeches on behalf of marginalized groups, head held high as he was confronted by inflammatory and sometimes violent citizens. Azriel found himself developing a kind of grudging admiration for Tarquin alongside his scorn; he was either ridiculously brave or ridiculously stupid. It was a useless effort, after all. No matter how many laws he got passed, no matter how much money he donated, no matter how many soup kitchens he served at, humanity would stay as it always had been:  cruel, worthless, and ultimately inconsequential.

Yet Azriel found himself lingering over details of Tarquin’s file. Rhysand never left anything undone; the onionskin pages listed everything from the brand of socks he wore to the salon where he got his hair braided. The humanity of his marks had never bothered Azriel. After all, he was barely human himself, and going by his own experiences, death would be a welcome relief, not a punishment.

Tarquin was different. Azriel’s eyes lingered on the first photo. The man seemed positively incandescent, Azriel thought as he catalogued ever more minutiae in the photo. Tarquin’s braids glowed in the sunlight; his eyes were large and innocent, and crinkled in a smile; his shirt was fine but rumpled, as if he either only owned one, or couldn’t be bothered to change. Azriel was familiar with the feeling, but suspected Tarquin’s lack of clean clothing had more to do with his ardent charity work than nights with only a bottle of vodka for company. He pictured idly that Cresseida and Varian would fuss over Tarquin, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, chiding him for staying up until the wee hours of the morning. He experienced no such care. Well, Cassian occasionally gave him a troubled look, and Mor had attempted to talk him into support groups before she learned better, but he wasn’t… _loved_ , like Tarquin so obviously was. He didn’t want to be. Not really.

Tarquin not only was loved, he loved others. That much was clear. Not just those he was close to, but strangers of all sorts. Azriel’s imagination extended beyond the provided photos to Tarquin clasping urgent hands, supporting the stumbling homeless, handing out meticulously assembled care packages to suffering refugees.

_Fuck him._

Azriel’s palm landed with a stinging sound on the file, obscuring Tarquin’s blithe face. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, after all. He would see if Tarquin continued glowing as his body rotted, interred in a coffin ten feet beneath a granite tombstone. Though from what Azriel had learned from the file, Tarquin would be the type to have donated his organs for transplant and his body for science.

It was, Azriel thought, going to be easy to kill him.


	2. Tarquin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've seen the assassin - now let's meet the mark. Tarquin may not be the shining figure of perfection that Azriel assumes he is.

“Tarquin! _Tarquin!_ ”

Tarquin woke up with a jolt like missing the last step in a staircase, dizzy with vertigo as his eyes flew open. Above him, blurred, was the face of his cousin Varian.

“Was I –” Tarquin croaked. His throat felt like a desert. His head pounded. It was a hangover without a previous night’s pleasure of alcohol, and he was used to it.

“No,” Varian said, and ran a hand over his face. “No screaming. But you were writhing, knocked your lamp over, that’s how I knew to come in. Fucking shit, Tarq.”

Tarquin – slowly, carefully, so the vertigo wouldn’t overwhelm him – sat up. “Sorry,” he muttered, blinking his contacts back into place. “Stayed up too late, I guess.” He was slumped over his desk. He must’ve fallen asleep while drafting yet another long-winded, ass-kissing application for funding. It was really begging, if he was being honest. It soured his mouth even more to think about it. He never mentioned how he felt about it to Varian and Cresseida; they were already of the opinion that he’d sacrificed every bit of his pride for his causes, and he wasn’t eager to prove them right.

“Hey, not a problem,” Varian said uncomfortably. “Got any actual sleep?”

“I dunno. What time is it?”

“’Bout four thirty.”

Tarquin laughed, a hollow, rapid thing without enough air. “Well, I sat down at two.”

“Come on, dude.” Varian sounded concerned, but half-hearted. Tarquin couldn’t blame him. He’s a bitch to argue with at the best of times, and they’d been over this countless nights. “You’re running yourself into the ground. Get a few hours at least.”

Tarquin shook his head and rubbed his aching eyes. “Can’t,” he said. Not with his fucking heart still pounding like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and slipping on stones. “Go back to bed, Var. I’ll, uh, finish this up.” He gestured at the papers before him. “Or… I dunno, listen to Mariah Carey or something. I’ll be fine. You have work in the morning.”

“And you don’t?”

Tarquin chose to ignore that. “Tell Cress to go back to bed too,” he added. “I know she’s up.”

“She worries,” Varian said quietly.

“Yeah, I know.” Tarquin tugged mindlessly at a bead on the end of one of his braids.

Varian waited, but Tarquin didn’t continue. Then he shook his head and walked out of Tarquin’s room, closing the door behind him. Tarquin can hear him rustling around in the next room over before settling down.

One of these days.

One of these days they were both going to decide he wasn’t worth the trouble. One of these days Varian would throw all his shitty 70’s records in a box and Cresseida would pack up her lesbian sci-fi novels and they’d get into Cresseida’s baby blue Chevrolet Cavalier and take off.

God, he couldn’t wait.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want them around. He loved them to pieces, both his cousins, and was so grateful it hurt that they’d been so supportive and caring for so long, but they knew as well as he did that they deserved better. Better than someone they had to lie for and wake up in the middle of the night for and try and _try_ and get pushed away.

Tarquin’s laugh caught in his throat. The ironic thing was that he would kill for affection. Varian waking him up filled his heart at the same time as it twisted his stomach. He felt himself relax every time Cresseida patted his shoulder in passing. Fuck, he even chased the oxytocin rush he got when he served someone soup and they smiled at him, or the hug from a fellow protester.

He was such a fraud.

Suddenly frustrated with himself, he shoved his chair back from his desk and stood, slipping out of his room quietly enough that it wouldn’t wake his flatmates. He made his way into the kitchen – stumbling against a counter in the dark and suppressing muttered curse – and switched on their electric kettle. He preferred coffee, but with his pulse pounding the way it was, caffeine would just make things worse.

Ten minutes later, he was back in his room, holding a cup of chamomile tea with a considerable amount of honey stirred in. He took a long drink, wincing as it both scalded and soothed his throat, and collapsed back into his chair. Setting the mug down with a slight clack, he took a look at what he’d been able to get through of the applications. His laptop was open to a draft of a fresh one, but scattered in front of him were those he’d already sent out – those had been returned with a blister-red DECLINED stamp across the top.

Charlotte had said she’d take care of these, but she’d looked so uncomfortable that he hadn’t had the heart to let her. He’d swept every one of the papers off his assistant’s desk and brought them home. It wasn’t like he’d never done something like that before; in fact, he was famous around the office – and, hell, the city, probably – for not being afraid to get his hands dirty, never mind that he was an executive director. That was one thing he was proud of. One thing they couldn’t take from him. Maybe he would have to crawl at the feet of the people who funded his organization, maybe he would force tears to his eyes when news networks deigned to send a reporter or two to one of their events, but he could work as hard as he fucking wanted and they couldn’t do a thing about it.

He did, too. He worked his ass off. No one to fill out forms? Tarquin would do them when he had a minute. One of the protest speakers dropped out at the last minute? Tarquin could write a speech in an hour and be there in half that time. After-work bar party? Tarquin would show at half past eight, shirtsleeves rolled up and khakis rumpled, ready to congratulate his team for whatever it was they’d accomplished that day.

God, he was so fucking tired.

The papers on the desk blurred in front of his weary eyes. There was no way he was going to get them done tonight. So, despite what he’d said to Varian, he took his contacts out, threw sweats and a t-shirt on, and sat in bed, finishing his tea before lying down and closing his eyes.

His alarm would go off in two hours, and then things would start up all over again.

All he could do was hope he stayed firmly on the ground between now and then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways somehow this one is even angstier than the azriel chapter??? wtf, me.
> 
> This fic can also be found on tumblr at birdiethebibliophile!

**Author's Note:**

> Still trying to decide whether I'm going to do mixed POV or not, so I thought I would just post this part now. It was going to be a one-shot. guess not oops
> 
> Find this fic on tumblr at birdiethebibliophile!


End file.
